


320

by sharkdaze (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bad Sex, M/M, a bunch of bullshit, a bunch of shenanigans, lots and lots of ass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sharkdaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're gonna die, shit's fucking terminal. There's an entire list of ways you wanna physically worship his ass. You could even consider mustering up a list of spiritual and religious ways you could worship that ass. Not tonight though."</p>
            </blockquote>





	320

"Just get your ass over here, English."

Authoritative.

And _damn_ , what an ass. But it's unacceptably not situated on your dick right now.

It's Sunday night and nah, fuck Monday, who even gives a shit— it's all systems go; you're gonna do it, gonna make this fucking happen. All you have to do is seduce Jake into a rioting livid mess. Shouldn't be too hard; you've got the convoluted jungle that is Jake English's sex drive mapped out, vines rewired and ready for your profit and you're on a shitty couch in your shittier apartment. You're already halfway there; you've got lube snuck under the cushions, a remote digging into your back and Jake's blushing, has himself straddled on your knees but that's not really what you want. You shove him back, spread your legs for him, wrap them around and yeah, Jake is getting pretty flustered. At this rate he'll just end up fucking you gingerly or some shit. That won't do. It's kind of early so maybe you're pushing it but tonight you're looking to get fucked hard. You're tired of fucking yourself with dry, felt puppet dong and tonight you want the real d(eal). You've got this all under control, though. So far you're doing pretty good, but what can't you do?

"Christ dickens, you're always like this. It has barely even been five minutes yet!"

What a dweeb, making everything difficult.

613 dollars worth of commission of a Sbahj painting looms overhead, majestic and daunting framed in actual fucking gold. You can feel its shitty stare.jpeg. The artifacts burn into your skull. It's damn ominous. You ignore it.

You loop your fingertips around his neck, pull him down, lick your lips. He stares, eyelids half down, follows suit. Your fingers rake persuasive circles through his hair. Dark, tousled, gonna be even more tousled when you're done. Your lips are soft and his are even softer and then your tongue passes through lips to meet his and you pretty much just map out his mouth with it. He's already making (quiet) noises. Your fingers make their way down to his hair to fan out against his jugular, then down to his clavicle and then you just feel everything; shoulders, biceps, then his chest and down (abs, abs, _abs_ , he's gasping into your mouth and spilling out moans) and your hands are halfway up his shirt, rucking up his sides, tracing his ribcage. You'd tease them down his shorts but they're too fucking tight. The autoresponder is buzzing through your shades ( **TT: So how long is this going to take?** ) but you couldnt give a shit. When you break the kiss, a thin line of saliva, pellucid, stretches and snaps nigh simultaneously.

"You can't blame me. All I want is," you breathe, slowly hushing your voice until it's entirely dull whispers because right, you still have the whole driving him insane thing to pull, "your unbreakable skin katana, your sexy DNA rifle. Inside of me. Pounding wildly. Jake English, turn me into a mess. Fuck me over. Fuck me."

Hot.

He makes a horrified face and a vaguely animalistic noise. Not the kind of animalistic you'd like. Mm.

"DNA rifle," idle, "that's ludicrous."

Haha why is he talking.

"You're ludicrous," you breathe, "this is ludicrous."

No seriously why.

So you flutter your eyelashes (calculated, precise) because you know he likes that. You might look like flushed cheap sex right now; you're gorgeous, he's gorgeous, you're all mesmerized. Your hands trail high up his thighs (thick with muscle, bronze and hair glazed all over) and you trace his tan lines, brush his inner thighs. He becomes soft, pliant, willing. Pretty much mewls. Man, that's the opposite effect you were looking for. He's supposed to ravage you. You just flat out gave him the order.

"It seems," you smirk, "that someone's being a complete fucking pansy about this."

"Again, not that much time has elapsed," same argument, "raw suave seduction can't be pulled just yet. You have to wait for the opportune moment, you silly manchild goose," unironic statement.

"In your shitty movies," a kiss on his nose and a few more, "adventurers don't wait. You're doing a shit job, English. Fuck me in the butt."

His face somehow goes more red and he rolls his eyes, opens his mouth to say something but you push his ass down, press your crotches together. It effectively shuts him up and he's alarmed ("Whoa! Easy there, Dirk...!"), of course he is. When he grinds, he starts slow ( **TT: For the ridiculous porn you sift through this shit is pretty vanilla.** ) and your mouths are all over, around and inside each other and he's still hesitant but he's starting to get into it. Score. You refocus, let out something soft to encourage him. He likes that— making you feel good. (Or just, making people happy.) The remote digs into your back each time he rocks into you but you ignore it just like you ignore the AR ( **TT: How fucking boring can you even get? Get some sex toys up in here. Nothing wrong with a premature challenge. An adventure. I bet he'd like that. Try Bad Dragon.** ).

_Not fulfilling._

And then he loses balance, somehow entirely stumbles sitting down and lifts a little, snickers nervously, apologizes. Fuck. ( **TT: Look, he's doing it again. The whole not even having balance thing. This can't be any fun for you, bro. Unless you're insanely repressed, which you are.** ) You grab his ass and fingers curled around the curvature of his ass, irrate, instead of pulling him back down immediately you take the time to appreciate his ass. _Damn_ , what an ass.

Ass.

Wow, ass.

Fuck, you could really go for dicking him in the butt again. Or doing anything with his ass. Wanna worship it, eat it out (you'll save that for some other time, don't think he's ready), feel everything, maybe stick some really not ok dildos ordered off shady websites in it. What a perfect ass. You're gonna die, shit's fucking terminal. There's an entire list of ways you wanna physically worship his ass. You could even consider mustering up a list of spiritual and religious ways you could worship that ass. Not tonight though.

When you pull him back down, you use one hand to feel up his balls though his shorts and he moans, grinds and goes straight for your lips but instead, you— _clink clink_ — knock specs. You feel fleeting puffs of air (chuckles, not pants, or maybe they blend, is this something you care about), hear a warm, placating noise— and readjusts the position, rubs circles into your shoulders with the heel of his palms. Mm, that's ni—

**TT: Hey, watch it.**

**TT: While you're macking out softcore at least have the courtesy to not bump into others. That's just plain fucking rude.**

**TT: Or at the very least put on a better show. An AI can't jerk its virtual cock to this kind of shit.**

**TT: This isn't even hot.**

**TT: Holy shit. What is he doing?**

_God damn it._

Jake's starting to rut against you, hard and huge as fuck and wow your mouth is sure full of tongue (can't even use your voice to bitch at the AR) but you'd rather it be full of dick instead; weighted thick cock, want it in your mouth, fuck. You groan, soft and low. Baritone. Jake's caught off guard, loses balance and wobbles a little; mumurs a muffled tone that mimics "sorry". You're insanely hard and he's just not being rough enough.You want everything so much and you're starting to get a tad hazy.

You can handle this fine. Really fine. Like absolutely fucking fine.

His hands run down from your shoulders to everywhere to the base of your shirt and you like where this is going, _yes_ , shit is starting to get _rea_ —

**TT: I'm serious. What the fuck is he doing?**

**TT: He hasn't even gotten his dick out yet. How is this satisfactory at all? You guys are still fully clothed.**

**TT: Looking to get fucked hard and you're still fucking nowhere.**

Fucking— why is he even interested? _Fuck_ , he's creepy.

He plays with the hem and then he's rucking up your shirt. Feels you up again but without any fabric in the way takes his time. His hands eventually trail up and his thumbs press at your nipples, rub them in circles. Lips are now on your neck, going south, sucking and brushing from your jugular to your collarbone. Leaves soft noises (Jake makes a lot of noises, mostly of the "mmm, _Dirk_ " variety, you notice. He seems to really like saying your name.) and light marks everywhere, all the while screwing you through fabric and fuck, shit, _fuck_ , you almost slip out an involuntary noise this early in the game. You wonder how long the marks will last.

Not long enough.

Jake's flushed, dark hair tousled, green eyesscrewed shut; doesn't notice lines of faint red glow scrolling fast within the opalescent screen. Too busy trying not to mess up but keeps messing up; ruts nervously, losing control on top of you— really fucking aroused. Good. He has no idea what he's doing. You have a vague idea what you're doing ( _shit, shit, what's going on, fuck, yes, yes, wait oh fuck_ ). All that's really running through your head right now is this. A plan's a plan though so you make lewd, half obscene noises. Played up but not too much. And he trips and falls right into that, laps it all up and frots on your dick harder and louder (holy shit he's loud, says your name in a way that's surefire set to kill) though a woven barrier and it's not enough, never enough. You push him farther down onto your cock but the fucking denim (a pretty color, dark, but not tinted nice and warm like his hair. Too cold, need more heat, need more everything, _fuck_ ) is still—

**TT: Oh come on, you've gotten to this point and you still aren't doing shit.**

**TT: It's been a legitimate ten years. I'm so disappointed in you.**

**TT: I've been recording this shit and there's nothing worthwhile here at all. You can do better than this.**

**TT: I'm going to have to filter through ten years of bullshit lukewarm kid makeouts and extract not even half decent action here. This will be the shittiest compilation of awkward makeouts ever.**

**TT: Wait, instead of saving it for your own use in the future I could upload it to a cringe website.**

— confining as fuck and fuck, how are you still hard?

You know what?

You don't wanna deal with this. You groan, swat Jake away and chuck your shades to the side dismissively (you miss " **TT: Hey, no. I'm showing Roxy.** "). Scalene triangles cruise to the ground and you hear something loud, whoops. You're pretty sure he's just peachy right now. Jake looks kind of put off but then realizes the hazard of specs and tosses his own vaguely in the same direction, swiftly but much softer. Yeah, throw them daintily and all. His glasses aren't the host to an aggressive, overbearing, frustrating AI. Ridiculously intense guy. You don't even know how anyone can even deal.

Oh, wait.

Calculated flutters of pale eyelashes, you know he's enticed by that, and at this point Jake's completely lost any sense of restraint and has grown absolutely livid— he's all over you, then somewhere, fucking starts to bite. You lick the shell of his ear; purr praises ("yes, yes. You're so— mmmh— good. Keep it up," breathy, uneven, would be lame but you are so turned on right now) into it. The heat's white hot, he's moaning everywhere, pitch shaking (rising falling rising falling rising and christ, he can hardly— he just can't contain himself) erratically with each fraction of breath. He's flushed, tan with gradiating diaphanous reds; gorgeous. You like that, you like watching that; saliva trickling down from his mouth and this shit is sloppy and desperate, crazy. The friction's crazy and so are you; sensory overload, overdrive. Crashing fucking memory glitch (faster harder _fuck_ ) and you have no idea what's going on.

You're losing it and Jake's even more lost. _Fuck._

Rubbing dicks through denim and microshorts and cool and all but nah, that's enough of that. That's not where you want him to blow his load.

"So how about aggressively dicking me in the butt tonight?" What a charmer. You'll totally coax him into a breathless, brainless fuckneedy mess ilke this.

He has about fifty shades of grins of which he almost always wears and this one is nervous, "it's fine," you assure him, "it's not that hard, man."

"O-oh. Oh yes, that's right. Well," he continues, can't even breathe, "if you truly insist on the dadblasted issue at hand here..."

His fucking vocabulary. It's charmingly gross. You love it.

You cut him off before he derails into some bullshit you don't particularly care about right now.

"Lube's under the couch cushion," your hands idly knead his ass, "should be pretty easy to find. I didn't stick it too far in there."

Wait, you forgot about condoms. You should probably use condoms. Do you think you should tell him that? Whatever.

"I'm still not so entirely sure about the whole preparation ordeal..." he wavers, twiddling his thumbs, glances towards your asshole, "it all seems rather... complex. But exciting."

You know. You don't say anything because you know it makes him uncomfortable and alert. You'll probably have to seduce him into thinking with just his dick again because he's going to treat you with some kind of fragility ( _"Are you sure about this? Positive? Imperative to the high fucking maxes? Well... all right. I trust you."_ But he'll still be wary), isn't he. 

What a pain.

He cautiously rises from you and you almost let out a whine but you don't, you just unzip your pants and he shifts so you can take everything off (and finally get the remote digging into your back out of the way, you're surprised it didn't turn anything on the way he was pretty much fucking you hard through your clothes) and fuck does it feel good to have your cock out and free and tall. He follows suit ("oh, that's a thing I should do too, huh?"), outrageously small shorts and briefs peeling off his thick, toned thighs. His cock's pretty thick too, red, bobbing, leaks a little and it's not really stallion tier but you'll probably need a fair amount of lube. Your cock twitches and your lips part at the sight, eyes are transfixed. He doesn't notice, just gingerly sits back down between your legs and starts reaching for the lu—

" _Jesus H. dicking son of an enormous fuck!_ " the shitty Sbahj painting you commissioned ironically for like 600 bucks or something (can't really remember the exact amount right now, teetering between a state of massive cocklust and disappointment) falls hits Jake's head and are you fucking _kidding_ me, when does that happen ever.

It falls in the space between the coffee table and the couch and you can see one eye peering at you. Shit's deleterious but also kind of hilarious. Or it would be if you weren't rock fucking hard right now. A tragicomedy. Your sex life. You contemplate hanging it back up but what's harder than getting out of this position with Jake perched atop you is your dick. That's pretty fucking hard.

Speaking of Jake, he spends a few seconds squinting and rubbing at his head and how is he still hard? He just got bonked on the head by a _really_ shitty painting. What a trooper. He's _your_ trooper.

"Doggone painting!" he rages, "what the heck are even the _chances_?!"

If the AR were around he'd probably pull some bullshit statistic out of his ass. Haha, fucker. He isn't. Bastard's out cold on the floor.

"Pretty fucking low," you answer, numberless and inwardly smug.

"Well, no frigging shit," Jake seems pretty riled up still. You should probably ask if he's okay. He's still rubbing his head.

... Nah, he's fine. So you just look at him, eyebrows raised. You probably look demanding and condescending.

_Perfect._

You two look at each other for a long time. Jake laughs nervously, now rubbing his neck instead of his head. Progression.

"Oh, right," he remembers, "fricking you in the butt is probably a task I should jump to stat."

Dorky grin, dorky statement. Yes, fricking you in the butt is a thing you'd kill for right now. He resumes fumbling for lube. He does that for a long time.

Yeah... Yeah. He's taking a while.

Shit, he's still fumbl— oh, no, he's got it, nearly dropping it but it's still in his hands, and— click. Applies pressure— the clear solution starts to spill out, he experimentally smears it between his index and middle finger. He looks at your asshole nervously; brings his fingers about three and a half inches closer—

"All right, no," you interject. He looks broken so you add, "we're not going to be exploring the melting caverns of the North Polean icebergs in my asshole tonight, English."

"I say, what?" An articulate, halting response of boundless quality. You are blown away by its sheer— he tilts his head and that's damn cute. Can we get some "aww"'s up in here?

... Oh right, lube. Frigid lube. Not a thing you'd like in your asshole.

"You're supposed to warm it up."

Baffled, "what?" Still baffled, "well... how?"

Oh come on, that's not a good attitude towards proper problem solving. The best way is to—

"Figure it out yourself."

He knits his eyebrows and twists his lips (full, bruised, _red_ ) "That's dead ridiculous! Why can't you just come out with it and stop being such a gianormous jerkwad?! Father fucking Christmas, everything would be bucketloads easier!"

Yeah, you could spread and stretch yourself out for him, tease, make it easy, drive him to delirium, put on a show— fingerfucking yourself _anywhere_ sounds pretty good right now, _fuck_ — but those kinds of treats should saved for after he's learned the proper method himself. Cutting corners won't do, you just have to go all the way and the sooner he learns, the better. 

And you're sure as hell gonna give him a hard time about it.

"Well, I'm waiting. How much time are you going to waste? You can't let your best bro get blue balls up in here, man. What happened to being one fine gentleman?"

Hey, it's for his own good.

On the other hand you're horny as fuck, really wanna blow a load and don't have all day. You think about that and get kind of mad.

He objects, "well you certainly aren't being a gentleman of any sort."

"Never said I was."

"Fucking hell, that is still just plain hypocrisy!"

"Yo, you're the one self proclaiming. I've never said anything about being a pretentious fucking gentleman, man."

He whines, rambles. Calls you a douchelord among other colourful arrays of insults. You're always like this, he complains. Yeah, yeah.

He's so cute.

"Are you going to figure out the fine art of fingerfucking or not?"

You set your arms behind your head and watch the show that is Jake English's dismay, imagine tossing popcorn in the air and catching it in your yawning mouth. What a drag of a show. You say nothing else. Then, he stops, just concedes. You can tell from the way he looks down dejected, petulant. He contemplates solemnly and even like this he's animated with a frown ripped straight out of cartoons. Kind of feel like stroking yourself off because _what a fucking time interval_. You move your arm about half a centimetre to do just that but then,

"Oh!" He exclaims brightly and he looks so damn proud.

Positively shining, you can see all of his teeth including his dorky buckteeth arranged in an overbite. You suspect his thought process has been thus far dull.

You don't like the dweeby twinkle in his eyes. You want him to fuck the shit out of you and he's here looking like some fucking puppy promised with a treat— way too much hope for some casual sex. You're getting suspicious of the situation and not just because of the implied beastiality of the non-stallion kind. You raise an eyebrow and he grins wider— his teeth start twinkling too. You're getting sick of sparkly things.

"Now don't be so glum, Strider!" he laughs, so sure about something, "I have got this _all_ sorted out.Shan'teven be a tad of a problem!"

He fucking pulls a Super Mario tier jump off of you, like almost hits his head on theceilingand sprints to the kitchen, again nearly losing hold of the lube as it ricochets between his fingertips, and leaves a luminous trail of sparkles in his wake.

What?

... His footsteps echo in a drearily upbeat fashion in the distance. You think you hear him hit the wall but he just resumes his path. Fuck. You are really fucking sick of those sparkles, they're pretty fucking infuriating, what the fuck is he up to n—

He wouldn't. No, you just can't.

... Shit.

Oh god.

_Fuck._

"Jake," urgently, but he's already gone.

"Jake," you call out more stern, harsh, "hey, _Jake_. Jake, wai—"

No use.

Instead of sitting there for a few moments dumbfounded you are now running on adrenaline, so you do something else equally embarrassing: rushing to the kitchen with a half dead boner. When you get there it's been brutally fucking murdered and upon sight of Jake watching the microwave inquisitively, it rises from the exosphere (wherever the fuck heaven is) high into the cosmos to the after after life. You know exactly what's going on and fuck this is just terribad.

"Dirk!" How cute. He has no fucking idea what he has just started. You have no idea what to say.

Fuck. All you wanted was to finally take it up the butt from a real dick tonight. Instead you're completely fucking screwed and not in the way you planned.

"Jake," your voice is even, flat— but quick. "Turn it off. Remove the lube. Take it the fuck out of the microwave."

"What? Why?"

Fuck, of course he's not gonna listen. Stubborn son of a... You resume movement.

"The cardinal rule of putting things you shouldn't put in the microwave in the microwave is that it explodes. You should know this," you look at him incredulously, unstopped, and Jake's posture is relaxed and carefree and so is his chuckle when he says, "don't be daft, Strider! That kind of malarkey only happens on evidently staged horsebull Youtube videos."

"Regardless, that is way more than enough time, English."

He makes a thoughtful face while still retaining an airheaded smile. Is that even a thing?

... All right it's definitely been way too much time. Your heart sinks and all hope is officially federally declared dead at right fucking now o'clock; you can take the last step but it may be too late. The stifling futility settles in and gives the air a moldier whiff.

Wait, nothing's happened so far. Maybe you— hey wait, no... no, wait. You waste no time and turn the thing off. The vial stops rotating over the spinning glass as its whirr is replaced with a sharply pitched bleep. You guess you're safe. You don't really know anything about lube dynamics in microwaves. It's a Youtube mystery after all.

Yeah no, shit.

The lube just explodes anyway.

Go figure.

Dirk Strider, dead without ever taking a dick up the ass. At least he will have lived having shoved his own dick up an ass— still hasn’t completed the full circle. _Laaaaaaaame._

The last thing you see and feel before the white hot expansion of flames engulfs you both is Jake dumbly about to turn his face to make eye contact with you from whatever the fuck he was distracted by, dork grin blinding you in full force while he's just comically unaware. You think you see his eyes widen in horror briefly for like half a millisecond but you're not really sure. The reaction completes as fast as the explosion does.

As for your last thought, it would have been how tragic the situation was had you an additional millisecond to think.

The apartment burns and doesn't even bother to just be fucking polite, disintegrate into ashes and just flutter away gracefully with all its dignity or anything, no, shit has no fucking morals. Instead we have half of it collapsing onto the next apartment setting it on fire and we've got an entire fucking chain of dominos massacreing Houston, Texas. Ladies and gentlemen and all other, this is the end fucking chapter, no, the epilogue, the afterword.

The rendition of Dante's Inferno here is breathtaking, literally breathtaking because smoke veils the cityline suffocating all as the domino effect carries on. Citizens witness the cacophony of crashing buildings, falling debris, dancing ashes and the dissonant choked screams of their fellow citizens, harmonic with sirens scrambling in the distance as more gasoline tanks blow like some real metal percussion. Conveniently, some bullshit oil or gasoline or something lines America's highways trailing a blaze across the country and skyward; you swear the flames touch the clouds and line them iridescent. The fire department is not enough to save the day. No one can escape. America has received a sick burn and has turned into actual fucking hell. Here we have Analgeddon via apocalube sexplosion. Alas, DirkJake is Satan. Satan has won after all, fuckers. How can he be summoned when he is already here? Or was. DirkJake is dead. Satan is dead with America. Bless him for he is a true martyr.

Minutes later, far up north in Canada, Canadians emerge from homes and breathe in the scent of pumpkin flavoured lube settling in from the south.

"Someone screwed up big time," they breathe and breathe it all in, disappointed in the fact that no, it wasn't maple flavoured lube.

What a waste of time.

**Author's Note:**

> april fucking fools its still april fools here shut the fuck up maybe i should have slapped a character death warning on this one
> 
> yo writing fic and doing characterization just isnt my thing havent done creative writing for 2 years havent written actual fanfic ever. you can say im pretty rusty and this was rushed. crazy shit
> 
> (i have never been more nervous in my life)


End file.
